March in Pittsburgh

It’s that awkward time
The temperature’s turned
though the trees stand barren,
their bends and breaks
never so easy to follow,

growth indeterminate,

spring but a promise.

The poets have turned too,
inward or
otherwise away.
Inclined towards the overt,
this season bores them
by its grayness.
They applaud themselves for winter’s end,
shutter their sites,
and retire,
as if the work is done,
and the tempest forever past.
Rebuilding isn’t as sexy as shouting,
creating even less so,
and so they leave it

and so we may lose it.

Ten million drawing,

another thousand dead.

Nathan Porceng is a Washington based poet, songwriter, and submariner. He has been published by Headline and Entropy. Nathan enjoys the works of The Clash and Adrienne Rich. His opinions are his own. Read other articles by Nathan.